The Red Velvet Turnshoe (13 page)

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Authors: Cassandra Clark

BOOK: The Red Velvet Turnshoe
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E
NGLAND HAD BEEN drowning under incessant floods when they left. Tuscany, on the other hand, was burning up under the heat of the sun. It was not only that. The fires of war made the
contado
look like a burned-out wasteland. Hildegard lost count of the gutted farms the convoy passed on the way, the fields of blackened wheat, the scorched groves of olives.
It was a relief when the shout went up as soon as the walls of Florence came into view. After many months of plague when its gates were shut, now the fever had receded they were flung wide again. Rose pink against the azure sky, the city seemed to float in the fiery haze like a vision.
As they rattled under the stone arch of the Porto Rosso – the Red Gate – a couple of hours later, the tumult of a crowded city echoed deafeningly in the narrow streets and on all sides people jostled round the newly arrived convoy to inspect the travellers. Vendors, militia, guildsmen and apprentices, beggars, of course, churchmen, flagellants: all impeded their progress despite the shouts of the drivers to let them pass.
Hildegard got down from the wagon, telling Pierrekyn they would walk the rest of the way. It was cool here within the walls. The palazzo of Ser Vitelli, she was told, was further along the street.
An announcement of their imminent arrival had been sent from the last halt and Ludovico’s capo, Ser Vitelli, had instructed liveried servants to meet them. Now they conducted the two travellers along the Via Porto Rosso to the palazzo of the Vitelli company. With Pierrekyn at her heels, Hildegard followed them through a pair of iron-studded doors. As soon as they entered the doors clanged shut behind them.
It was strangely quiet inside the small, roofed yard, busy as it was. Here their credentials were checked and Hildegard’s well-thumbed letter of introduction from Ludovico was scrutinised. Only afterwards were they allowed through into the inner courtyard.
Hildegard had a vague impression of a tall building with many levels, open to a small patch of distant sky. At ground level was the counting-house and on both sides under a portico were many trestles covered with bright Turkish rugs where rows of accountants worked. Balconies on every floor gave onto the courtyard. The walls of Tuscan brick were relieved by one small window at first-floor level.
It was like an eye.
A servant noticed Hildegard’s quizzical expression and explained that it was the private apartment of Ser Vitelli where the strongbox was kept.
She imagined him sitting up there, keeping an eye on his house like a spider in its web.
To the left of the main entrance was a set of wide, shallow stairs, open as far as a night gate with a half-latticed barrier patrolled by armed guards. They were conducted through this to an upper floor, lodgings for Vitelli’s closest advisors and his guests. Above that, their guide explained, were living quarters for the trainee traders – the
fattori
– and, above them, the stores and, finally, on the open roof under a wooden shelter, the kitchens.
The street doors were locked and guarded at night.
Hildegard was ushered into the principal chamber overlooking the street while Pierrekyn, as a servant, was taken off to the guest quarters.
She knew as soon as the man entered that it was Vitelli himself.
An aura of power was instantly apparent. A hush descended. He walked towards her on soft-soled leather slippers, wearing a full-length gown of black camlet. Its only decoration was six silk-covered buttons and it fell in stiff pleats as if carved from marble. A plain linen cap concealed his hair. The simplicity of his attire ran counter to his famed wealth.
When he moved closer she noticed that his irises were yellow. With his smooth-shaven olive skin and black pupils fixed unmovingly on her face, he looked like a burnished snake.
He offered one hand with a large ring on the middle finger as if he expected her to kiss it. She inclined her head.
He withdrew his hand inside his sleeve.
‘Forgive me, Sister. I did not intend to infringe your vow of chastity.’ His yellow eyes glinted, the pale lips lifting briefly. He continued as he began, in Latin. ‘Welcome to the house of Vitelli. I congratulate you on your fortitude in undertaking the journey from England. If you would like to come onto the terrace we can better inform ourselves of our respective needs without being overheard.’
He indicated an open door at the far end of the chamber where a breeze blew in, bringing with it a scent of lavender. Hildegard followed him outside. So this was Ser Falduccio Vitelli,
il padre
, head of one of the most powerful banks in Europe. She arranged her thoughts with care.
On the journey to Bruges Ludovico had told her about the company’s interests. They stretched from headquarters here in Florence to Aigues Mortes and Avignon, to Barcelona, Paris and London, to Ghent and the low countries, and on into the Baltic, with a reach into the Russian steppes and as far as the Orient by way of Venice, Constantinople and Trebizond. Despite this, Ser Vitelli himself pulled out a chair for her overlooking an immaculate formal garden, surrounded by high walls.
Slippered servants attired in black and gold appeared with bowls of fruit. Dark wine was poured into two goblets. At first the only sound was a mechanical nightingale singing among the sculpted branches of an evergreen close by. When it stopped it left only the clink of Ser Vitelli’s silver knife, cutting into the flesh of a fat peach.
‘These are from my own gardens,’ he told her, sending a servant to her with the slices on a dish. He poked at another one with the tip of the blade. ‘They’re rather early, I’m afraid. You must taste them later in the year when they reach the peak of maturity when all things are best.’
His eye caught hers and held it.
‘I would be honoured,’ she replied as she became aware of the continued penetration of his glance. She dipped her head, adding, ‘Alas, my permission allows for only a short absence from my priory in England.’
‘Ah, England!’ He sighed with the air of welcoming the introduction of the topic. But then there was a measured pause.
He struck her as a man who did not move so much as his little finger without first having considered the matter from every possible angle. Now he went on, ‘I have never been to England. It is one of the few countries I have never had the pleasure of visiting. My youth was spent almost entirely in Avignon. I did not start out as a banker. It was trade that dominated my life in those days.’
He was referring to his start as an arms dealer. He had become rich from such trade. Later he supplied luxury goods from the East to the international clients at the court of the false pope, Clement VII.
‘I never go anywhere but where the market dictates,’ he continued. ‘It has never ordered me to England.’
‘Yet now you are a major importer of English wool?’ She smiled.
He bowed his head. ‘And I hear that my nephew Ludovico wishes to import something else from your fair shores?’
The yellow gleam might have been a hint of humour. It might have been malice. All Hildegard could do was agree. He had got to the point more quickly than expected.
Having planted the seed for their discussion, he was in no hurry to go on. Instead he told her about the cloth-making industry in Tuscany; how Lucca had taken the lead in silk manufacture; how the despotism of the Visconti brothers in Milan, Bernabo and Giangalleazzo, worked against the peaceful conduct of business; and how merchants like himself might have to go on using Sir John Hawkwood’s mercenaries to ensure safe passage of their goods, until, after many graceful digressions, he returned to his starting point; the betrothal of his nephew Ludovico to Philippa de Hutton.
More especially, thought Hildegard, he turned to the topic of the dowry being offered and whether the daughter of Lord Roger de Hutton would prove to be a useful business alliance or not.
Philippa and Ludovico. Their future happiness depended on this man.
She murmured something about them being very much in love.
In reply Ser Vitelli made a sound like laughter at the back of his throat and said, ‘Love pays no bills.’
‘No doubt the betrothed’s dowry will ease matters – if her beloved is poorer than he pretends?’ She met his glance without wavering.
‘As a manager of one of my
fondaci –
one of my branches – he will earn one hundred florins a year. If he demonstrates talent, then more. Poverty will never be an issue for Ludovico,’ he paused, ‘although generosity may be one of his failings.’
Hildegard’s eyes widened. ‘Lady Philippa has had many offers of marriage but has rejected them all. She is set on marrying for love, not riches. Ludovico is the first suitor to touch her heart.’
To her surprise, his glance softened. ‘I regret only one thing in my life, Sister. I was always too busy building my company to find a bride. My one regret,’ he repeated, briefly closing the lids over his yellow eyes.
‘So, then, you might look kindly on the match of true hearts?’ she asked gently.
He opened his eyes but she could not read their expression. ‘Her father, Lord Roger de Hutton,’ he watched her intently, ‘is he a prudent man?’
Hildegard concealed a smile. Prudent? Roger? There were many words that would more accurately describe him.
Without waiting for an answer Ser Vitelli raised a finger and a servant materialised with a silver tray bearing two documents. Vitelli picked up one of them, glanced at Hildegard and unfolded it.
‘I have this by special courier from my
fattore –
my manager in Bruges, informing me of the damage to the consignment of wool belonging to the abbey of Meaux.’ He frowned. ‘Unfortunate.’ He picked up the second letter. ‘And here I have the terms for the dowry. I find,’ he went on, with a puzzled frown, ‘that it is the same as the price of his wool and am left to wonder whether Lord Roger expects the house of Vitelli to subsidise the dowry?’
‘If I may be permitted to point out, Ser, in return for your payment for the staple you will receive a consignment of the very best English wool available.’
A lively gleam entered his eyes. ‘I also understand that Lord Roger wishes to purchase shares in one of my ships. He wishes to be included in both the
corpo
and the
supra corpo
contracts. From this I
deduce that my nephew has been most persuasive during his sojourn in England. Does your northern lord fully understand what he is being drawn into?’
‘I imagine he understands as much as any man of prudence,’ Hildegard replied with some spirit. ‘He is, I gather, in partnership with someone who will share the cost of the loan.’
Ser Vitelli gave an unexpected chuckle. ‘You mean the earl who has agreed to stand the expense of the
supra corpo
while Lord Roger,’ he indicated one of the pieces of vellum, ‘is to take his profit from the
corpo
contract – only six months after putting up the capital. The earl, poor fellow, will have to wait ten years for a return on his investment. Very good. I wonder how he came to agree to such an arrangement?’ Chuckling again, he said, ‘I like this Roger already. I think he understands these matters very well indeed.’
He handed the contract to the servant who brought it down the length of the table to Hildegard.
Aghast, she scanned it. She saw at once what Roger was about. He was prepared to risk the equivalent of Philippa’s dowry for six months while the ship he bought into traded in the East for spices and other goods, and after the six months were up he would receive a profit on the
corpo
contract – and get back the price of the dowry he had put in. The rest of the shares would not yield any profit until long after the ship returned because the capital would be invested in further ventures until the ten years of the loan were up.
As the contract was made out in both men’s names, Roger stood to make a further profit when the final dividend was paid. And yet his own money would not be at risk in this longer deal.
The expense would be borne by the earl, Melisen’s father, a man who could not read and entrusted the drawing up of contracts to a clerk.
The devil is in the detail, she thought, handing back the document with no comment.
In her mind’s eye she saw the body of Reynard in its woollen tomb.
It would suit Roger if the witness to his deceit was dead.
It would suit him very well indeed.
Before Ser Vitelli was called away to attend to business, he had one more thing to say. ‘And now,’ he smiled, ‘for your own request, Sister. I believe you’re here not to further the suit of someone who is not even kin but for a reason of your own?’
She was ready. ‘I am sent on an errand by my prioress to fetch home a small relic loaned to one of the churches here by a traveller from our shores some years ago,’ she said smoothly. He did not need to know that the traveller was the Emperor Constantine, nor how many centuries the relic had languished in Italy.
‘So small that she sends you over many dangerous leagues to retrieve it?’
‘It has, I believe, great personal value though in itself worth little.’ The cross, she added, was made of oak, available in any English copse, and, as she understood, crudely made.

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